The Battlefield Series
by sandwiches
Summary: The battle is over. His search begins. SJ. Complete.
1. The Search Of A Battlefield

Summary: The battle is over. His search begins.  
Category: Angst, Humor, Series. Romance possible in later chapters.  
Episode Related: None.  
Season: None in partcular.  
Pairing: Jack/Sam, of course.  
Rating: 13+  
Warnings: A 'lil bit of cursing. Sorry about that.  
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written this story for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author(s). This is why I am but ten minutes from the poorhouse. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm only playing with the characters for a little bit. Honest. You can have them back in a minute.

Author's notes: as this is a repost, I want to thank those who have reviewed this fic in the past. Natters, lennielight, jannymac, akiko-dono, MandySg1, IloveSg1 and Maggie Eaton, thank you all. Your comments were more than welcomed and were most encouraging. Also to PhDelicious: I have followed your advice and am posting this as a single work, with chapters, to make it easier for the readers. In truth, as this as the first work I posted on had no idea how to do it it until recently! But never mind, I hope this is correction enough for my error. To the ladies and gents at the As The Stargate Turns writers group...you are all a whole heap of brilliant. Thank you kindly. Finally, for those of you waiting for more of this particular story, it is going to happen, but I cannot give you a timeframe. I can only tell you that even in it's complete state, there will probably be no more than six or seven chapters in total posted on this site. However, please continue to search for works that you enjoy in fanfic, whether written by me or not. There are some real gems out there!

_The Battlefield Series Part One_

_**The Search Of A Battlefield**_

As he continues to cast his glance across the now dead (in oh, _so_ many ways) battlefield, the panic rises within him. Again, he tries the radio. "Carter? Carter, please respond." Nothing. Nada. Just static. _Shit_. He looks around frantically.

-----------------------------

He has been searching for some time. Hasn't reported back for a little while, because he is aware that two of his team are already safe at the SGC and he _knows _he'll find the other one, soon. Nothing to see here. Unless you counted the blood and the bodies and the injured, that is. The mess of massed combat. It's all close to meaningless to him. He hadn't found what _he _was looking for.

"Sir". His attention is called to a member of SG-18. He thinks it's SG-18, anyway. Black crew cut. General air of youth. Freckles. _Freckles_, goddamn it. Just a kid.

Scanning the ground, he chooses to pay no particular attention to this individual. He knows he can listen, direct, give sound orders, without stopping his search for _her_.

"_What_, Airman?", he growls. He nearly winces, knowing immediately that his tone is unnecessarily harsh. He wills himself to pull in a deep breath and turns towards the officer. Taking a proper look at the individual, he realises that the youngster is shaking, yet almost frozen in place from his cold question. Dammit to hell, could be the first time he's seen anything on this scale. He suddenly feels terrible for the young man.

"I'm sorry...er..?". He tries to make his voice as warm as he can, as fatherly, if you like, but he is having trouble as he is currently resisting the physical urge to apply himself to ripping this field to pieces until _she_ is found.

"Captain Charles, Sir. SG-19." Poor kid. At his initially cool gaze, this new recruit had looked like the proverbial rabbit caught in the headlights of a car.

To ease any tension, he tries to use a light tone of voice. "So close!". It had obviously spectacularly failed. At the young man's confused look, he just says, "I'm sorry, Captain Charles. Had you pinned as a member of SG-18. Please report."

The young man in question, to his credit, draws himself up to his full height and does just that. "I have been asked by General Hammond to collate figures for the injured, dead and missing. We currently have two reported fatalities, sir. There are also three other SG teams reporting missing personnel. I have to ask you, Colonel, should I add any of your team to their number?"

Colonel Jack O'Neill (two 'l's), tries not to feel the wave of nausea that threatens to engulf him. He decides to take the proper military route and ignores his emotional and physical discomfort, just as much as he can, anyhow. "Doctor Jackson and Teal'c are safe. I have a...", time for a minor holiday from the truth,"...light staff weapon burn to my upper left arm." A pause. "Major Carter is...missing." The last word is ripped from his throat, almost guttural in it's intensity. He takes a moment to regain his equilibrium. "I will remain here to help continue with the search for survivors."

Captain Charles, lord bless him, doesn't choose to notice any overtly emotional overtones in his superior officer's words. "Thank you, sir. Good luck. If I may..."

"Good work, Captain Charles," he states solemnly. "Dismissed."

Jack turns before he has even finished speaking, eyes darting once again over the bloodied grass.

-----------------------------

Another two hours. The panic is gone now, the adrenalin powering him through it and the battle beforehand a long distant memory. Now he feels cold. He feels bone tired. He feels the wound on his arm, hurting, burning. But more than anything, now he just feels a cold desolation inside. He cannot find _her. _What use is he, if he cannot find her?

He stamps on his self-doubt and pulls on what he feels must be the last of his internal physical reserves. After all, it does not matter what he feels. _She _matters.

-----------------------------

It is getting dark now. There are still other members of the SGC picking diligently over the battlefield, through the gore, making sure that any of the injured, alongside any military weaponry and technology that they can find is removed back to the safety of home. It won't be too many hours now before they all have to withdraw. And he is reaching the very edge of the battlefield.

What will he say to the remainder of his team? He is pretty sure that, "We got seperated," is not only lame excuse but one from a stupid movie. He can't remember which one, but Carter coul...

_Shit._ Something breaks inside. He crashes to the ground. He wraps his arms around his ribcage and he weeps.

------------------------------

The night is midway through. Somehow, he is still going. He has scoured the battlefield for any sign of her and he has found nothing. It will not be long before he is forced to leave. Sure, they can send a rescue party when the sun rises again, but _he_ has not found _her. He has not found her._ It is the only thing that is now keeping him going. He is virtually numb inside, but the fact that he will _not _leave her behind is his driving force, the one thing that makes him place one foot, leadenly, in front of the other.

------------------------------

He is called back. He has been called back before now, but has cried off 'til the last possible moment. The retrieval teams are returning to the gate. He looks around him, swinging his torch desperately in one last wide arc about his position. It is of no use. Feeling broken inside, he turns back towards the departing personnel. As he starts his sombre trek towards home, he honestly feels heavier, not just on the outside but inside. He feels as if this weight is crushing his very life from him. He has failed her.

_He did not find her._

"I am so sorry, Sam", he whispers to the battlefield, as he wills himself to move on.

Then it is there. In a random wave of torchlight. Just a boot. A USAF boot. A fairly small, muddy, USAF boot. Attached to a slender ankle. Showing merely the hem of USAF pants. He stumbles over, the light strobing wildly as he falls to his knees in front of what is, at this very moment, the focus of his entire being, his entire damned universe. He swings the torch up the ankle in question, quickly realising that not only is said ankle broken, but that it's owner is under at least two jaffa in full armour.

"Shit, shit, shit. Sam..._Carter_, please be alive. Please, please, please...", he almost begs as he somehow manages to drag the two heavy corpses to either side.

And then he hears it. A gentle snoring. Oh yes, people, _snoring_. Colonel Jack O' Neill swings his torch up towards her face, the face of the one he had been so desperately searching for, for so many hours. On the way, he checks for any other obvious signs of injury. He notices her crushed radio (that would explain that, he thought) and there are some cuts and abrasions on her cheeks and forehead, but other than that, she looks OK. He knows far better than to believe that all he can see is all that can be wrong, but when he actually registers the sound he is hearing, he can't help the gentle laughter that escapes him momentarily. His eyes lock on her face, as if suddenly needing to absorb her appearance for his own reassurance. Even snoring, she is so amazing, so beautiful. The most welcome sight he could ever hope to see. A soft, lopsided grin lights up his own face.

"Oh no, Major Carter. Now that I think you'll live through this, I've gotta tell you, I am _never _gonna let you live this down." She continues to sleep on as he smiles and quietly calls in a med team.

------------------------------


	2. The Way Home From A Battlefield

Summary: Bringing her home.  
Category: Angst, Humor, Series. Romance possible in later chapters.  
Episode Related: None.  
Season: None in partcular.  
Pairing: Jack/Sam, of course.  
Rating: 13+   
Warnings: A 'lil bit of cursing. Sorry about that.  
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written this story for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author(s). This is why I am but ten minutes from the poorhouse. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm only playing with the characters for a little bit. Honest. You can have them back in a minute.

_The Battlefield Series Part Two_

_**The Way Home From A Battlefield**_

The first thing she is aware of is movement. An undulating motion that makes her a little nauseous. After that, the sounds around her. Trudging feet, muttering voices. One voice particularly stands out. A male voice. His voice, she thinks. So weary. Not always a good sign.

Then she feels it. Pain. God, her hand, her head...ow, her leg! She stifles a moan, opens her eyes and to her horror notices that she can't really see anything. Her insides gripped with fear, her brain straining to click suddenly into high gear to try and fathom a reason for this, she can't really help it when she whispers quietly, "I'm blind."

The movement stops and a hand comes to rest on her shoulder. "Glad you're back with us, Major." His gruff, but gentle voice takes on a slightly amused tone. "You're gonna be alright. And no, you're not blind. It's dark out here because, well, it's dark out here."

Faintly reassured, she starts to say, "Are you su..."

"Look, if it'll put your mind at rest, I'll do an impression for you."

Sam, despite the pain and disorientation, could only hope he wasn't going to do the Godfather. Again.

A bright light.

As her eyes struggle to focus, she nearly physically recoils from the uplit face right over her. Until she sees it is him. And he is grinning.

"See? Blair Witch!"

A momentary urge to be furious at the shock is completely outmanouveured by the tired relief and joy that is clearly written across his face.

She hears some rumbling laughter from the as yet nameless officers carrying the stretcher. She, too, cannot prevent herself giving a small grin back.

But that doesn't mean that somebody else can't be angry. Very angry indeed. The torch is snatched from the Colonel's grip and a commanding voice erupts from the tiny figure that has just briefly been illuminated in the light before it is switched off.

"Colonel O'Neill." Sam could almost feel him tense next to her as the words cracked out like a whip. " I did not, I repeat, did not, work my ass off, stabilising all of my patients and bringing in extra medical staff, only to come here and have you scare Major Carter half to death!" Her voice softens. "Hello, Sam."

She smiles in the vague direction of the voice. "Hiya, Janet. Thank you for coming." It's all good, thinks Sam. She is with friends. She is already starting to feel a little sleepy again and figures that her best friend has given her some drugs. What a great best friend.

The good doctor's voice is suddenly all business, laced with some warm reassurance. "No problem. Sam, you have a broken ankle, a sprained wrist and a couple of contusions to your forehead, but you will be fine. We are only a couple of minutes from the gate." Again the tone changes. "That is, if we do not have put up with any more stand-up routines from the Colonel."

A slightly strangled sound comes from said Colonel. "I..."

"I do not want to hear anything else from you, Sir. Now I suggest we get through the gate soon. Because all of the time we are here I am thinking of just three things."

The strangled sounds have not quite yet stopped. "Wha.."

"Sam's health, of course. And you. In conjunction with some very big needles."

The strangling noise stops and there is a defeated sigh. "Well, gentleman, we all heard the good doctor. Let's move out."

As she starts to drift, Sam notices the movement begin again. Over the next minute or so, she can hear the Colonel off to her right, muttering almost imperceptibly. "Damn little tyrant...great doctor...big needles... tiny, tiny, tiny...but so loud...shouting...definite control issues...never stops moaning and complaining...Napoleonic powermonger..."

Just before sleep takes her, Sam realises that there is something really relevant that she could add to his train of thought. She tries to lift her head, cannot, and decides to just speak before dropping off into oblivion.

"Sir, Napoleon was really short as well."

-----

Oh, dear God, noooo, Carter. No! Her words, for that one simple statement, rang out, clear as a bell. The stretcher jolts to a halt as he hears Dixon failing miserably to cover a guffaw and the torch turns on, it's beam hitting his face like a sledgehammer.

"Napoleon, Colonel?" There's ice in that there sentence, he thinks.

He immediately realises that he probably looks quite stupid, hands balled into fists at his shoulders and his face screwed up in horror. He knows how to deal with this. Sure he does. Colonel Jack O'Neill draws himself up to his full height, relaxes him arms and oh-so-slightly tense facial muscles, and plasters the patented O'Neill look of boyish innocence on.

"Yes, Doctor." Ah good, the patented O'Neill voice of boyish innocence is still working too. "I hear that Napoleon was very short." He looks blandly around, trying not to squint too badly in the torchlight. He can't see anything, of course, but that's hardly the point. "Why have we stopped? I have an appointment at the infirmary to try out a selection of your finest needles. I've been told some of them are really good. Let's move out."

Even Doctor Janet Frazier can't prevent the slight smile that creeps into her tone as she replies, "Yes, Colonel. It would be absolutely terrible if you were late. Let's go!"

They move on, and as the light from the wormhole ignites, Jack looks down at his 2IC. Who is snoring. Again. Did he say she would never live this down? Now he was thinking she would be lucky to live at all after the upcoming medical 'treatment' he was expecting to endure!

He can't help it. He is bone weary, his shoulders hurts, he aches damn near all over by now and he just wants to fall into the nearest bunk when he gets back and sleep. For a week or so. But he has found her. She is safe. He has found her. He lifts his head, a wide smile of joy near splitting his face as his eyes meet Janet's.

A smile that is openly returned. Though, unfortunately for him, he realises that her joy at bringing back Sam may only be increased by her anticipation of using those needles. On him. Dammity damn damn.

He is the last to go through the gate. Just before he steps into the shimmering blue circle, he let's out an honest, yet affectionate shout at it.

"Napoleonic powermonger!"

His lips are turned up in the smug grin of a victory that can only be known to him as he tiredly, but overwhelmingly happily, takes the single step home.


	3. The Return Home From A Battlefield

Summary: A welcome return.  
Category: Angst, Humor, Series. Romance possible in later chapters.  
Episode Related: None.  
Season: None in partcular.  
Pairing: Jack/Sam, of course.  
Rating: 13+   
Warnings: A 'lil bit of cursing. Sorry about that.  
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written this story for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author(s). This is why I am but ten minutes from the poorhouse. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm only playing with the characters for a little bit. Honest. You can have them back in a minute.

_The Battlefield Series Part Three  
_  
**The Return Home From A Battlefield  
**

The wormhole bursts into life in the gateroom. General George  
Hammond ('Of Texas', he mentally adds, as he can internally  
appreciate Master Bra'tac's extension of his appellation, even if he  
won't admit it out loud due to the ridiculous amount of jocular head  
rubbing and that would undoubtedly follow) looks nervously out of the  
control room towards the gate. Yes, he has been apprised of the  
Major's condition. Yes, he knows she is safe. But being verbally  
informed doesn't matter when any of his people are missing. However,  
this isn't just anybody. He will only, as always, allow himself to  
feel a small wave of relief when they come through the gate and he  
can see that she is alive.

Major Samantha Carter. An extraordinary person in so many ways. He  
was honest enough to admit to himself that she was one of the truly  
special ones. The kind of outstanding officer he had been fortunate  
enough to have serve with or for him on less than a handful of  
occasions during his long military career. And as time went on, an  
officer whose place on the premier SGC combat team had been quite  
rightfully questioned by those working in thinner atmosphere. He has  
always been determined to defend her position to the hilt. There is  
no question that she is a skilled and supremely talented soldier. As   
time goes on, though, he is finding it harder to argue against the  
requests from above to stop risking that unique intellect and   
knowledge. She is vitally important to the interests of Earth. But  
none of this is important now. Major Samantha Carter is not an  
intangible name on a sheet of paper to him, a sheet of paper just  
showing what she can do with the laws of physics. She is a young  
woman of great intelligence and experience in this peculiar field,  
yes, but she is also a young woman of warm charisma, with a kindness  
that cannot help but draw people to her. As the CO of this base, he  
hopes for the safe return of the intangible of these Major Samantha  
Carters, but this will is overridden by the emotional drive of George  
Hammond to see the captivating smile of Sam, the brilliant young lady  
he has come to see almost as one of his own daughters. He gazes at  
the gate. "Come on people, bring her home."

-------------------------------

She is here. She is safe. He takes just a fraction of a moment to  
enjoy his relief at the situation before seeing that something is  
just a little out of whack with the returning group.

It is rare that the return of an injured officer involves any  
reaction other than a grim satisfaction at the completion of a  
successful journey home on the part any of his personnel. Extreme  
levity is something he would never expect. But General Hammond is  
pretty sure that that is the case out there, in front of him, in the   
gateroom, right now. Colonel Dixon, one of his finest officers,   
looks about fit to burst into hysterical laughter on the ramp.   
Lieutenant Corrin and Nurse Barton are hardly any better. Teal'c   
is...well, Teal'c, but given his experience with the stoic Jaffa, the  
General cannot help but think that there is a huge amount of   
amusement writ large in the menacing warrior's left eyebrow. Doctor  
Frazier, on the other hand, is all business, though again he can't  
fail to notice that her customary sharp orders are being handed out  
with a slight grin.

She looks at the medical team that has been assembled for her in the  
gateroom. "It's a simple fracture. She needs no more than a cast, a  
couple of stiches on her forehead and some anti-inflammatories with  
support for her hand and wrist. Up on to the gurney.   
One...two...three...up." The move is accomplished with the innate  
professionalism that General Hammond finds both amazing (by ordinary  
standards) and yet commonplace (by the massively high standards he  
had come to expect from his diminutive CMO). The patient does not  
even wake. If he is not mistaken, she may even be snoring.  
Incredible.

The stargate brings home the last of his men. Colonel Jack O'Neill  
('Two 'l's', Hammond couldn't help but mentally add), steps into the  
SGC, glances towards his 2IC, making sure she is receiving adequate  
medical care and sends a jaunty wave in his direction. Good God, is  
he nearly smiling too? And an odd near smile, to boot. It is all  
too strange.

"All returnees to the infirmary." Not that he is terribly concerned  
about their health, you understand (though naturally he is), but he  
really wants to find out what is so damned funny.

-------------------------------

As he joins the miniature convoy moving up towards the infirmary, it   
really doesn't take the General long to get his answer. And he is   
glad that for once he doesn't have to take his stars and hit people  
over the head with them to get it.

In the elevator, the still madly amused looking Dixon is the first to  
speak. "So, our dear l'il tyrant, she's gonna be ok?"

Doctor Frazier glares melodramatically across the gurney. "Yes,  
Colonel Dixon. She will be fine. And if I may remind you, I have  
the power of the needle over you as well." She glances over towards   
Jack, who, at this moment, is leaning nonchalantly in the corner.   
She doesn't quite manage to keep the smile out of her  
voice. "Although I can't see you for at least an hour."

Major Carter is still sleeping.

Dixon looks suitably chastised. O'Neill seems relatively unbothered  
by the good Doctor's statement, but as it was directed at him,  
Hammond can only guess that some names, possibly regarding various  
world leaders seriously lacking in democratic policy, were exchanged  
off planet. Now that is funny. 'So long as it doesn't affect base   
operations', his generally General-like side intones in his mind,   
before he tells it to be quiet. Now all he needs to know is the name  
of the tyrant. One of the benefits of being base commander is that  
information is only available on a need to know basis. As base  
commander, he needs to know everything. This is an absolute rule and  
he knows it, because he just created it. Isn't command great?

The elevator comes to a standstill and the doors open. As her patient  
is comfortable, Doctor Frazier allows the others to leave it before  
she and Nurse Barton push the gurney out. The General moves with  
them. As they pass Colonel Dixon, he cannot resist he urge to speak.

"You know what I'm getting you for Christmas, Doc? A hat." His warm  
smile almost splits his face as he moves his hand in an odd  
triangular motion over the top of his head.

Doctor Janet Frazier does not grace him with an answer, but all is  
suddenly clear to George Hammond.

He cannot help but sympathise. "Napoleon, Doctor?"

She sends him a smile back. "Yes, General."

Hammond grins. "Oh, I've had that too, in my time. I think you'd  
look adorable in a tricorn, Doctor Frazier."

She puts on an extraodinarily vapid look and utilises a surprisingly  
good southern accent. "Why, thank you, General." Suddenly, the look  
and the accent are gone as she glances back at Colonel Dixon. "One  
hour, Colonel." Oh, now that is a hard voice!

Dixon has the nous to look a tad worried. Colonel O'Neill, however,  
barely notices when she turns to him. "With us, Sir." It is only  
when he needs a second call that the General realises that he hasn't  
been that nonchalant at all. His attention has been fixed  
elsewhere. To be precise, on the gurney.


	4. The Infirmary After A Battlefield

Summary: A caring professional.  
Category: Angst, Humor, Series. Romance possible in later chapters.  
Episode Related: None.  
Season: None in partcular.  
Pairing: Jack/Sam, of course.  
Rating: 13+   
Warnings: A 'lil bit of cursing. Sorry about that.  
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written this story for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author(s). This is why I am but ten minutes from the poorhouse. No copyright infringement is intended. No, I don't own them already! We all know who does, so if I just resort to my normal promise to give them right back when I'm finished, I hope that's OK. If it makes you feel any better, I'll clean them up before I put them back. I'll even take extra special care to do so with the Colonel. Ahhhh, happy days...

_The Battlefield Series Part Four_

_**The Infirmary After The Battlefield**_

Doctor Janet Frazier was nothing if not exhausted. She was dead on her feet. It had been nineteen hours since since the infirmary had been alerted to the incoming wounded from the battle. In that nineteen hours, she had had to tend to the medical needs of far, far too many of her colleagues and friends. She had, for more than half of that time, been working whilst aware that the best of those friends was missing in the field. When Sam had finally been located, to the surprise of absolutely nobody by Jack O'Neill, she had somehow managed to arrange sufficient staffing to be part of the team that had brought her home. And to top it all off, she had learnt of her reputation as a tyrant. A French tyrant. A French tyrant with a funny hat!

She blows gently on the surface of her hot coffee and fails to rein in the smile that threatens to overtake her weariness as she remembers her first view of a certain officer, caught in the beam of the flashlight, after Sam's unintentional revelation about her best friend's nickname. His hands clenched by his shoulders, his face screwed up in utter horror. Damn, but he had looked like a six year old kid who had just been discovered with his hand in the cookie jar, five minutes before dinner!

She cannot help it. What begins as giggling soon becomes an uncontrollable stream of hysterical laughter. But the emotional and physical strain of the past day has been too much. And the laughter is soon joined by tears. Janet Frazier, for all of her competency and strength, is not beyond despairing at the sacrifices made by these extraordinary people almost routinely, yet without wider recognition. These extraordinary people who are, to her, like family. She does not know if she could make the sacrifices demanded from these amazing people. She hopes to God that she will never have to find out.

After a few minutes, she finds herself sitting in her chair, still nursing what little of her coffee remains in her cup, softly weeping. No sobs anymore, just occasional tears tracking down her cheeks in silence. She wished she could say that challenging days like these were far too few. But she would be wrong.

It is like this that he finds her.

----------------------------------------

All thoughts of obtaining updates on the progress of his officers flies out of his mind when he sees the state his CMO is in. Looking at the clock, he realises that she probably hasn't had any rest for more than a day. He is all too aware of her dedication, all too aware of her almost superhuman will to keep on going for abnormal, even unhealthy amounts of time when the situation demands it. He raises his hand and knocks on the open door.

Startled, she looks up and immediately uses her free arm to hastily wipe away any evidence of tears from her face, whilst placing her cup on the table. "Sir, I'm sorry. I have the reports you asked for right here, I..."

He shakes his head. "It's alright, Doctor. When was the last time you took a break? You look tired." His soft tone is comforting, almost fatherly.

She smiles, a little wryly. "Oh, you know, General...sometime yesterday."

He smiles back. "I thought as much. I had heard that people in your profession were well aware of the medical need for rest, Doctor. Hell, even I know it and I'm not qualified enough to use a Band-Aid."

She fails to respond to his small attempt at humour and he starts getting worried as her voice hitches a little and she launches into the hurried beginnings of what he suspects will be a long to-do list. "I understand, General, but there are several important test results I'm waiting for, I need to monitor Captain Moore closely for possible repercussions from his fractured ribs, Colonel Lawson needs special care for his burns until we can transfer him to the Academ.."

He cuts her off with a wave mid-stream. "I don't want to have to order you to your bed, Doctor Frazier," he stated gently. "Not after all of your fine efforts today. Doctor Warner has the infirmary covered for now. I think it would be wise if you chose to get some rest. If you are needed, you will be called."

He watched as the formidable little woman's shoulders slumped. "You're right, Sir. I'll get some rest. But if I may, I'd just like to check up on them before I go..."

General Hammond understood exactly what she meant. "Of course, Doctor. If it will reassure you, then feel free to have a quick look around before you leave."

She smiled warmly then. "Thank you, Sir. If you want to you can come with me, so I can update you on my patients as we go."

He had to admire the professionalism of this young woman. "Of course, Doctor Frazier. Please lead the way."

-------------------------------------

They make their way quietly and efficiently through the infirmary, with Doctor Frazier informing him concisely of the exact condition of each patient. A couple of his officers are awake and he spends a few minutes with each of them. He has always been firm in his belief that the full support of commanding officers should be given to subordinates in times of physical or emotional injury. It only serves to strengthen military relationships in the long run.

It had been particularly distressing to see Colonel Lawson, who was suffering burns to much of his upper body. Of all injuries, General Hammond knew that burns were not only extremely painful, but left the patient at high risk of infection. The man had a young family and although he knew that the best of all available care would be given to him, he feared for the Colonel's future well being.

They arrived outside the cubicle of one Jack O'Neill. Apparently a staff blast had clipped his shoulder during the battle. Not that he had bothered to mention that, of course. Not until all of his team had been returned to the safety of the SGC. General George Hammond is more than happy to admit that he is one hell of a stubborn man, and a fine officer to boot. A fine officer who is not in his bed, that is.

The General watches, with some amusement, as Doctor Frazier rolls her eyes in disbelief. "Damn that man!" She looks a little abashed. "Sorry, Sir."

He grins. "That's alright, Doctor. As I understand it, Colonel O'Neill has never been the most patient of patients."

"You aren't wrong, General. But it's OK. I think I can guess where he is."

He follows in her wake as the good doctor marches to the other end of the infirmary. She looks behind a curtain and huffs. "Just as I thought." She looks back. "Major Carter, Sir." He looks past Doctor Frazier and sees Samantha Carter settled comfortably in a bed, and a certain Colonel slumped uncomfortably in a small armchair. Both are sleeping. In fact, they are both lightly snoring. "Will they both fully recover, Doctor?"

"Yes, Sir. Although Colonel O'Neill will have one hell of a crick in his neck by morning."

George Hammond is a bit shocked. "Shouldn't you try to wake him, to move him back to his own bed?"

Doctor Janet Frazier looks absolutely horrified at the mere thought. "No, General. You see, while he is sleeping, he isn't complaining. And his condition really isn't that serious. In all honesty, Sir, I let him stay because we had the one spare bed and, if I hadn't, he would have been found trying to creep through the infirmary at four o'clock in the morning to see if the Major is OK. It really scares the nurses!"

The General laughs softly. Doctor Frazier smiles warmly and continues. "And believe me, Sir. The complaining! On and on...you'd think, given his history, that he'd be a little more stoic...but nooooo. It's enough to turn my hair white!"

General Hammond turns to leave. "Well, Doctor, at least you have some hair to change. Thank you for the information. Are you feeling better now about getting some rest?"

Janet Frazier nods and starts to move quietly towards the exit herself. "Yes, General. And thank you for the suggestion."

"Sleep well, Doctor Frazier."

-------------------------------------------


	5. The Recovery After A Battlefield

Summary: Nearly time to go home.  
Category: Angst, Humor, Series. Romance possible in later chapters.  
Episode Related: None.  
Season: None in partcular.  
Pairing: Jack/Sam, of course.  
Rating: 13+   
Warnings: A 'lil bit of cursing. Sorry about that.  
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written this story for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author(s). This is why I am but ten minutes from the poorhouse. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm only playing with the characters for a little bit. Honest. You can have them back in a minute.

_The Battlefield Series Part Five_

_**The Recovery After The Battlefield**_

The first thing he is aware of is pain. A burning in his shoulder, a sharp discomfort in his...ow, ow his neck! He decides not to open his eyes just yet as he grasps around in his mind for his last memories. He has a strong feeling that when he had fallen asleep, there had been no danger, but in this crazy job he figures it would be just like Thor to whisk him half a galaxy or four away and graft on an extra head whilst he slept. And that really is one of the better options, in his oft-overlooked opinion.

Then he hears beeping and people murmuring softly. He recognises that beeping. Oh, does he ever. The infirmary. Shit. He half thinks he would have prefered the Thor thing. There is nothing for it. A slightly befuddled Jack O'Neill opens his eyes. And finds that he is currently looking down at the floor. In fact, the only thing in his field of vision right now is a pair of feet encased in some polished ladies shoes. Tiny, tiny, tiny feet. He knows who those feet belo...Doctor Janet Frazier crouches down and with a warm grin that somehow also manages to have an edge of annoying smugness to it, speaks in the cheeriest voice. Ever. "Good morning, Colonel. Did you sleep well?"

She can only just stop herself from laughing out loud as she reads his face. He manages to restrain himself from the cursing that is written all over it in about five seconds. Which is good. A personal best for a morning in the infirmary, she thinks.

"Yes, Doctor, as a matter of fact I did sleep well. It's the waking up part that's a little harsh." His voice is gruff, his a tone a smidgen this side of bear-like. "What happened? Why am I sitting in this chair? Why aren't I in my own bed?". Suddenly, with a huge effort and a tremendous groan, he pulls his head up. His eyes are clear now and Janet knows that he has realised the reason for his discomfort. His gaze shifts to the empty bed in the cubicle and she watches as he tries not to panic. "Sam...Major Carter. Is she OK?".

All thoughts of teasing the poor man about his seriously unwise choice of sleeping arrangements fly out of the window as she registers the depth of his concern. "The Major is going to be just fine, Sir. She has just been taken to have a cast applied to her lower leg. It's looking good though and I think she may well be out of it within a month."

"Well, that's good," he huffs. "She's like a bear when she's wearing a cast. Says she can't stand the itching."

Doctor Janet Frazier bursts into a spontaneous peal of laughter before he halts it with a sharp narrowing of his eyes. "Did I say something funny?"

"Nothing Colonel." For just a moment, she pulls her features into the very embodiment of professionalism, but she can't make it stick. So her face splits into a wide grin as she says, rather impishly, "Just amazed that you, of all people, would moan about Sam being like a bear, Sir. Given your current mood. Um, with all due respect. Colonel. Sir." She stutters to a halt.

"Very amusing, Doctor." He's honestly trying to be in a foul temper, but the news about his 2IC is enough to override even the teasing of a certain miniature tyrant. So instead of sounding angry, he is now almost back to his normal, perhaps a little sarcastic but in his own opinion not completely uncharming, self. "Look, Doc, much as I'd love to sit here all day and glare, I've got places to be, people to meet and jello to get, so if you don't mind..."

The good doctor cuts him off with a wave. "Just a moment, Colonel. I have to check your shoulder first. If you could just move over to your own bed?" She watches him as he hauls himself upright, noting his grimace as he pulls his head fully upright. Satisfied that he is more than capable of making his way over to his own cubicle, she walks on ahead to gather supplies for his wound. As she trots away, Jack sends a nearly affectionate glare after her. "Napoleon," he mutters quietly.

The footsteps cease, but she doesn't turn. "I heard that, Colonel O'Neill." She continues on her way.

"Ears like a damned bat, " he whispers in disbelief.

"And I heard that too," comes the amused response.

-------------------------------------------

Major Samantha Carter is not best pleased. As she is wheeled back into the infirmary, she looks at her lower leg in some disgust. Holy Hannah, this thing is going to drive her crazy! She knows how this goes. In a couple of weeks time, she will be so itchy and uncomfortable that she'll seriously consider asking Siler for a hacksaw to cut this thing off herself. But she knows that won't work because a certain best friend of hers will have absolutely forbidden him or any other staff to do so. Said best friend will have also visited her home to clear out any cast threatening blades. Even her breadknife! She had found that out after her wrist.

As she is deposited back in her bed, her mood is broken by the voices emanating from a cubicle a little down the ward. His cubicle to be precise. She can't help but smile as she thinks of the moments just after she'd woken. As is usual for an infirmary style wake up, she had been disoriented at first, all the normal whats, wheres and whys overloading her sleep-addled brain. She'd realised in fairly short order that her ankle and her wrist hurt like hell and then she had recalled the battle. But then her eyes had come into focus and the first thing that they'd landed on was him. Slumped in the chair, he'd looked frankly adorable. The physical urge to ruffle his mussed up hair and to simply hold him had been almost overpowering, even if her ability to do so was limited by far more than her current injuries. And she knew that despite his own injury, he would have been there all night, just in case she woke. It made her feel warm inside, made her feel safe.

"Ow! Look, Doc, do you really have to use a needle that big? I've seen smaller spears!" Sam grins widely. God, that man hates this place. His voice is sounding like that of a petulant five year old, which at 4 O'Neills on the Infirmary Whining Scale (oh, how she had laughed when she'd heard about the IWS from one of the nurses!) means that poor Janet is dealing with him all alone. Any nurse with good sense will have already found an extremely valid and pressing reason to be elsewhere and in Sam's experience, all of the nurses at the SGC have impeccably good sense.

"Please be patient, Colonel, I'm almost done here!". Janet's voice is sounding a bit strained.

"I am being patient, Doctor. I'm being a really, really, patient patient. But you keep coming at me with those...those things that do not, I repeat, do not look like needles to me. Did you go to med school in the middle ages or something? Because I'm thinking Spanish Inquisition, I'm thinking witch hunts, I'm thinking torture is your speciality. This isn't fair!", he accuses. Oh dear, Sam thinks. He's shifted from a petulant five year old voice to an all out annoying thirteen year old voice.

Yes, he has truly tipped over into 5 O'Neills on the IWS. Poor Janet!

"If you will listen to me for just a moment, Sir."

"Why, you wanna stick a leech on me?"

Doctor Janet Frazier lets out a sigh. "No, Colonel. I'm finished. You may leave."

"Oh, that's it?". Suddenly his voice is bright. "Cool." A few moments of awkward silence, then, "Uh, Doc...I'm sorry if I was...a bit...unpleasant for a minute there. Thank you."

"That's alright, Sir. You are free to go. Please."

About thirty seconds later Janet appears at the foot of Sam's bed, looking mightily relieved. She rolls her eyes. "A bit unpleasant?"

Sam rolls her eyes in return. "For a minute?"

Janet grins. "Your CO is a great officer, a good man and a credit to this facility, Sam. But I have to say, as a patient? He sucks beyond the telling of it. He is a goddamned pain in the ass!"

The best friends laugh.

--------------------------------------

It is only a few hours before the 24 hour period of observation necessary after a knock to the head expires and Samantha Carter is officially bored. Much as she loves her best friend, Janet's insistence that she rest and her confiscation of Sam's laptop, which Teal'c had sadly not managed to bring into the infirmary quite stealthily enough earlier, is starting to make her a little cranky. Nothing to do. Aaargh! Every single minute seems to take forever to pass. She has tried everything to keep herself amused. She's read a newspaper, talked with Daniel a lot, picked at what passes for food hereabouts for what felt like an ice age and made a few notes on some research she'd been doing, before the notepad and pen had been whipped away from her hands by Janet. She'd even tried following medical advice and attempted a bit of dozing throughout the day, but right now, she isn't sure she could sleep if her life depended on it. Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored...

"Hey." Her eyes snap up to meet the arriving Colonel's.

"Hey, Sir." She grins. At last, some more company. And not just any company. His company. As he would say, cool.

"Watcha doin'?" That funny lopsided smile. She loves that. It always makes her feel special.

"Nothing, Sir. Bored."

"Huh. Really? Well, I think I can help you with that." He smiles triumphantly, bringing the hand that was behind his back forwards, holding...

"Jello for the patient? And not just any jello. Blue jello," he states in hushed, reverent tones.

Sam giggles. "What?" he asks, sounding almost offended. "Nothing, sir. You just sounded like you were talking about Excalibur or the Holy Grail for a second there. It's blue jello. Sir." She calms down, but her eyes are glowing with mirth. Suddenly Jack feels like his knees are turning to putty. She is so beautiful. Crap. Come on, Jack, he thinks, she's your 2IC. Pull yourself together.

"Yes, Carter, it is blue jello. But as you can't walk to the commissary to get any, blue jello might as well be Excalibur, for all that you'll get in here." He briefly glances around the infirmary with the smallest of shudders and then settles his gaze back on the only thing that interests him here. Her. He gives her a tiny nod. "You see?".

"Yes, Sir. And thank you."

"No problem, Carter, let's set you up with this." He shifts the table into position in front of her, places the fabled jello on it and watches as she begins to eat. He loves watching her eat. Those soft lips moving. Her eyes shining. And as for the 'mmm' sounds she occasionally makes...so not even going there. Just really not. Oh no.

He is brought out of his reverie when he notices that as she only has the use of one hand, the glass tub is starting to slide around on the smooth surface of the table. Most of the jello is now gone, but she's having trouble with the last bits. He decides to be gentlemanly and steps up to the metaphorical and literal plate.

"Carter, you having trouble there? If it'll help, I can...", holy fuck, he's only just realised what he's about to say, "...uh...you know...um...feed you?" By the end of the sentence, he is visibly wincing. Internally, he is kicking himself desperately. What in hell is he thinking? There's no way he can stand this!

Sam sucks in a sharp breath and speaks haltingly. "No, Sir, that's...not necessary. Really, I, er, th...thank you."

He has the good grace to look contrite. "I'm sorry, Major. I didn't mean to be inappropriate. It's just that you're injured and you looked like you needed some help."

Her face changes suddenly and she stares at him, squaring her shoulders. Oh crap, he isn't sure what's coming now, but knowing Sam it's bound to be a complete curveball. "You're not being inappropriate, Colonel. You're right. We have helped each other out this way in the past. I see no reason why you can't help me now."

Huh? What the what what? Oh shit! He steels himself. He isn't quite sure how he was arguing in favour of this, but he knows he can't back out now. "Of course, Carter," he grinds out, stepping forward and lifting the damned jello towards her.

As it touches her lips, his eyes catch hers, and everything stops. All he can see is her. His mouth is dry, his heart is pounding, his skin feels charged and all he can see is her, her, her. He's not too sure, but he thinks that he might be gasping for air. He watches as she pulls in a ragged breath herself. All he can see is her. Her mouth, her nose, her bed hair, the stiches on her forehead, the blush staining her cheeks, her eyes...God, those eyes. All her, only her. He is lost. He tries to listen to the warning klaxons in his mind. It takes him at least ten seconds to realise that the klaxons aren't in his mind at all.

"Unauthorised offworld activation."

He continues to look at her. Truth be told, he can't look away. He struggles to speak. "Carter, I...gotta..."

"Go on, Sir," she finishes for him , speaking more sharply than she intends to. "Go on. General Hammond might need you." More gentle this time, more controlled.

"OK. I'll be back soon." He rips his gaze from hers and goes to leave the cubicle. He stops and turns back. "Carter, do you want me to drive you home when they let you out? Settle you in?" His smile is so earnest that she returns it without a moment's hesitation.

"Yes, Sir."

His smile spreads into a huge grin. "Great. See ya later." He spins and leaves the infirmary, not realising that he still has the spoon in his hand. Sam is left behind, breathless. She isn't sure what just happened. She isn't sure about the ramifications on her career. She isn't sure she should have him drive her home tonight. But she is sure that she liked it, whatever it was. A lot.


	6. The Promise after A Battlefield

Summary: Time to relax and heal.  
Category: Angst, Humor, Series. Romance possible in later chapters.  
Episode Related: None.  
Season: None in partcular.  
Pairing: Jack/Sam, of course.  
Rating: 13+  
Warnings: A 'lil bit of cursing. Sorry about that.  
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written this story for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author(s). This is why I am but ten minutes from the poorhouse. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm only playing with the characters for a little bit. Honest. You can have them back in a minute.

Author's notes: This is the final part of this series. I do apologise for the delay in posting, but I am also working on two other series at the moment (one of which, 'P5X 39 Whatever!', is available on this site) and I sadly only have a finite amount of time spare in which to write. However, I hope you find it to be worth the wait. Greetings to Sci Fi Fan Gillian and Obsidiana Girl for their fresh feedback since the repost, in addition to all of those mentioned in my notes for chappie one. Hugs to all at As The Stargate Turns. Greetings even to you lurkers out there. Yes, to you as well! Do feel welcome to come forth and say 'hi' at some stage!

Thank you kindly, all of you, for following this tale, my first completed series, with me. Bestest wishies. Jean.

_The Battlefield Series Part Six_

_**The Promise After The Battlefield**_

She watches his long fingers tap out a rapid rhythm on the steering wheel as he drives her home.

She knows it is not a sign of nervousness or irritation in Colonel Jack O'Neill, USAF. It's just him. It's what he does. It makes her smile as she tries to determine what tune he is hearing in his mind.

A sudden flash of inspiration and she speaks, a little dryly. "The Macarena, Sir?"

He looks at her askance for just a moment before turning his eyes back to the road ahead. Trust Major Samantha Carter, USAF, to work it out. She does that a lot. She is sooo smart. It makes him smile as he moves to defend his choice of mental muzak. "Problem with that, Major?", he asks, lightly.

Despite her acute discomfort as the movement from the engine reverberates through her cast, her grin could light up several major cities with light to spare. "It's the _Macarena_, Sir."

He huffs. "Yes, it is. And don't you be giving me the 'idiot look', Carter." He glances at her again, briefly. "Yes, _that_ one! For your information, in Dannyspeak, I happen to think that the Macarena will, in the future, be viewed as a cultural high point in human evolution."

She winces as the truck turns the corner into her street, but still snorts in derision. "Really, Sir?"

"Yes, Carter," he says in the voice he reserves only for five year olds and humorously insubordinate subordinates. "Thor told me so."

She almost chokes and when she speaks again, she is almost squeaking in disbelief. "Thor? When? How? _Thor_?"

He chuckles, lifting one finger to tap the side of his nose. "Need to know, Major. Need to know."

They pull into her driveway.

-----------------------------

Getting her into the house is proving exhausting and not a little humiliating. She finds the steps up toit impossible to navigate on crutches and in the end he lifts her over threshold, despite her protests about his injured shoulder.

She can't help but smile, though, at his offhand, muttered comment as he carries her, his breath gasping and movements awkward, through the doorway.

"Not_ exactly _how I'd pictured this, Carter."

She pretends she hasn't heard him.

He is so right, though. It isn't how she's pictured it, either.

-----------------------------

Having, seriously uncomfortably for both parties concerned, virtually dragged her up the stairs, he stands outside the open bedroom door, looking determinedly away, as she struggles to change into comfortable sleeping clothes, ready to assist her if the task becomes too much.

But it isn't.

The sigh he utters when she manages to manoeuver herself under the covers is full of both relief and regret.

She feels it too.

It makes her smile.

-----------------------------

She is very drowsy now. The events of the last day or so have made it more clear than ever to her that her best friend, 'Napoleon' (she had been so embarrassed when Janet had told her about her outburst on the way home!), is an outstandingly good source of all sorts of outstandingly good medicine. The almost unmanagable pain in her ankle had, a short time after a few pills and a glass of water from the Colonel, receded to a dull ache.

He is sitting next to her on the bed, his long legs stretched out. He is talking to her, about hockey, she thinks. But she is very tired. So she simply listens to his voice, not the words, but the tone, and finds herself drifting off to sleep, warmed by the simple fact that he isthere.

-----------------------------

He watches her as she slips into the relative comfort of sleep. Looking down, he momentarily allows himself the luxury of watching her face in repose. He loves doing that. Offworld, he does it every night time minute that he has to spare after ensuring the safety of the team. Her face is always soft, almost childlike as she sleeps.

Now that she can no longer hear him, he changes tack, losing the hockey and continuing to speak.

"I thought I'd lost you out there, Carter. _Sam_." He feels a wave of bitterness that he can't call her by her given name when they are in any kind of company, or even when she is awake. He goes on. "That hurt. I thought I'd _lost_ you. I...I cried. I did. _Me_. I don't cry, but I did. I thought you were gone. From me. I thought you were _gone_." His voice starts to break, but he reins himself in.

"Don't ever be gone from me, Sam. Please. That battle hurt too much."

He reaches out to touch her hair, but pulls his hand back before he does something that may lead to another something that is against the regulations of the USAF.

'For God and country', he thinks, a little wryly.

Instead, he watches her at rest.

-----------------------------

She begins to sweat and her arms start to twitch.

He recognises the signs immediately.

An imminent nightmare.

He speaks again.

"It's OK, Sam. You're home now. You're safe. We got you back. You're OK. I found you."

As she seems settle just a little, he decides this is an ideal opportuntity to tell some lighthearted home truths. It doesn't matter what he says, she won't hear it anyway, and after all, the important thing is that he is talking.

"Gotta say, Sam, you were snoring when I found you. Can I have you up on some sort of charges for that? Pretty sure I can, you know. But I won't, you know that. Damn old fool that I am. Ok, you were unconcious and some might consider that a valid excuse, but just one look from your baby blues and I'll be all, 'No, it's OK, Carter, it doesn't matter.' As for you telling the Doc about her little nickname, that I may or may not have had a hand in the making of, you soooo owe me. And whilst we're at it, could you please stop with the tank tops? Because can you say distracting? I mean, it's really, really hard to guard a perimeter when the view in the region of your chest is sooo much better. I..."

She starts to snore, her nightmare averted.

He starts to smile.

His work here is done.

He watches her so closely as her nose twitches. It is adorable.

When her mouth slowly opens onto the pillow, as she starts to drool, for crying out loud, he finds himself dropping a gentle kiss onto her forehead, completely without thinking.

Then her eyes snap open.

A sudden burst of energy bolts through him as his eyes are caught, as they are trapped by hers.

He winces. "Er, goodnight, Sam..um, Carter?"

"Tank tops, Sir?"

He can't look away. Her eyes are burning with amusement and maybe something else, too.

The Jack O'Neill patented voice of boyish innocence belatedly kicks into gear. "Tank tops. What about them?"

She reaches a hand out, softly placing it on his arm. "Just nice to hear they're still a problem."

His gaze pierces into her. "No reason for that to change."

She suddenly looks uncertain. "It's been a long time since the room, Jack."

He loves the sound of his name on her lips. It is so rare that she says it. But he loves it.

"Not too long now and not too long for a long time yet, Sam. I'm waiting. I'll keep waiting. That I can promise you."

They both smile.


End file.
